Tom

Your season fixated on sleep and their laziness Traveling the fairgrounds, and deciding who's failed you at best High is your voice still sung in the circus tents Touching your tongue on the ceilings of song How many skies fell on your horizon line? Would you go nowhere if you had a nowhere to go nowhere to? Never afraid of challenging the scenery If it punched out my lights, then I would punch out it's sun Can you not see that your audience is leaving? They were crushed in the foyers, unable to find seating The ushers in protest for the tears they planned on keeping Will soon turn to rivers not worthy of drinking The light now embarrassed and afraid of the dark Is seen covering it's evening with garments of stars The windmill stands turning towards the hurricane's push Through keyholes, and stanza singing onward we must